


on knowledge of the unexpected

by umbr4e



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Graphic Description, Komaeda Nagito Being Komaeda Nagito, Komaeda Nagito's Luck Cycle, M/M, Mild Gore, Minor Character Death, One Shot, Remnants of Despair (Dangan Ronpa), Self-Harm, Spoilers, Suffering, Suffering Komaeda Nagito, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:00:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24027025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/umbr4e/pseuds/umbr4e
Summary: nagito komaeda's plan fails miserably.disclaimer: big, BIG trigger warning for graphic self harm and a suicide attempt. please be careful here!
Relationships: Hinata Hajime/Komaeda Nagito
Comments: 19
Kudos: 394
Collections: Quality Fics





	on knowledge of the unexpected

It lingered behind him like a rabid dog stalking its prey, never quite becoming dormant, but never quite attacking with the force he expected it to. 

He was seven years old when his parents were killed on the plane. There were people afterwards, people with scratched out faces and garbled voices. They were phantoms cleaning the cut on his forehead, asking him his name, calling people, telling him over and over that it would be okay. Just have hope. Hope will get you through it. I’m so sorry.  
He wrapped their words around himself like a blanket and pretended it was his mother hugging him, just one last time.

He was nine years old when his aunt killed herself. It wasn’t much of a shock. He knew he was a burden, but her corpse still hurt to look at. But he had hope, which meant everything was going to be okay. He was lucky enough to keep the money inherited, even. His cousins knew it was his fault, and they treated him as such. But as long as he clung onto hope like his life depended on it, he would be happy again.

He was twelve years old when he almost died for the second time in his life, sheer luck being his only saviour. 

It was then that for the first time, he wished he wasn’t saved. 

When he was thirteen, he realised he couldn’t see a future for himself in which he lived. He decided he didn’t deserve one, and the thought brought him more contentment than a lot of things. If he didn’t matter, then the people he cared about would stop dying. They would be hopeful. They would have the same hope he experienced after his parents’ death, and his aunt’s.  
He was just a stepping stone for their happiness.

When he was fifteen, his diagnosis was confirmed and what little semblance of a world he still had came crashing down around him, the pieces gathering at his ankles. He couldn’t pick them up. He gave up trying. What was the point? His death was long overdue anyway. 

He just never thought this was how he’d go out.

Towards the end, he couldn’t help but notice just how horrible of a place the warehouse was to die in. But he couldn’t dwell on it. Time was running out, and he had only finished his work on one of his legs. Already he was lightheaded from the blood loss, furthering his need to hasten the process before they found him.  
Every time he brought the knife down on himself, his rage increased. His own blood spattered his face and his hair, and all he could do was loathe himself. All he could do was laugh at his uselessness at being so polite, so kind, so trusting of disgusting “ultimates” who gave in to despair so easily. At himself, for doing the same.  
He deserved what he was putting himself through. He deserved to die, and to die hated. He didn’t deserve peace afterwards, either. Just pain and blood and pain and blood and pain and blood and fire and poison.

Each stab was like hellfire scorching his wounds, but it would be worth it. He screamed into the duct tape covering his mouth till his throat was sore, but it was worth it. The simple act of lying down was like ripping his muscles open further than they already had been, but he knew it was worth it. He cried out as he slammed the knife through his hand, through bone and muscle as weak as it was worthless. At the very least, he hoped he was a good enough sacrifice. Sharp metal ripped through bone and muscle and tendon and skin like it was nothing, and he wondered if death was supposed to feel so detached.

He stayed there for an eternity, watching the ceiling, waiting for the ultimates, trying to control his tears, trying to hold on just a little bit longer just until they came.  
Hinata’s voice from outside the door was as much a painful relief as it was the catalyst for so, so much spite. 

Open the door.

Cause the fire.

Throw the grenades.

Poison me.

Kill me.

Kill me.

Kill me.

Please.

He didn’t even realise who he was begging to. Or why. 

The door is thrown open and Hinata’s voice is clearer, like a sword cutting through the rising smoke. Despite himself, Komaeda couldn’t help but smile.  
That voice was such a joy to listen to during the class trials.  
He expects the panic, expects the confusion, the screaming. All is going to plan. He expects them to run for the fire grenades, to try and do anything, anything to put the fire out.  
He doesn’t expect Hinata to run through the flames. He doesn’t expect the gentle hands rapidly untying the ropes and carefully moving the spear out of the way. Nor does he expect the smoke detector to go off even before the others returned.

His mind was reeling.

None of them used even one of the grenades, and here Hinata was, peeling the duct tape off his face and assessing his wounds so calmly that Komaeda would have liked to hit him if he could move his arms.

Luck truly had it out for him.

“Please don’t.” Komaeda isn’t used to begging for things. He isn’t used to wanting things, or asking for them. “Please let me die.” 

“No.” The answer is curt, and it is all he needs to hear to realise his plan has failed. "We're not going to."

Tears and blood blur his vision, horrified gasps and one of Kazuichi’s screams fill his ears as the rest of them file around the two to see what is going on.  
He lets himself be picked up. The shift in position sends another shockwave of pain through his legs, but he’s too far gone to care.

With what little energy he has left before losing consciousness, he hopes to die here anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm sorry, i just love making him suffer


End file.
